


It's a burning love

by rivers_bend



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have a sleeping loft to themselves, and can't get enough of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a burning love

Dad stops the car and says, "Everybody out," in front of an honest-to-god log cabin. There's only one room, with a wood stove opposite the door, a single mattress against the wall to the left, and a table and two chairs off to the right. Dean figures he and Sam'll have to sleep on the floor—Dad's started complaining about old bones the last couple years, has been less willing to bunk down without significant padding unless he has to—but then Dean spies a ladder in a shadowy corner of the room.

"I'm gonna see what's up there," he says, fingers crossed for another bed.

Even better than just another single mattress—which was the best he'd been hoping for, especially given the narrowness of the trap door—it's a queen-sized mattress on a knee-high platform, obviously designed to have drawers underneath, though they're missing now. It's set up under a wide skylight, smudged and leaf-littered with neglect, but still providing a view of the sun setting behind the mountains.

"Is there room up there for you and your brother to sleep?" Dad calls.

"Yep," he answers, _and even better, room to _not_ sleep if they're quiet_. Then says, "C'mon, Sammy, bring the bags."

"I'm not a mule, and it's _Sam_."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just bring 'em here and toss 'em up." Dean gets down on his belly and dangles his arms through the trap door.

Sam is sulking when he hands Dean the first bag, but when he sees his brother grin and lick his lips suggestively, his scowl changes to a smile. "I'll get the sleeping bags, too," he says.

As soon as Sam hands those up, Dad has other jobs for them, so there's no chance to show Sam the bed, or even make it, but Dean tries to keep in mind that it's only been four days since they were alone together, and it's not like he hasn't been able to _see_ Sammy in that time, tug at his too-long-again hair, wrestle with him even. Though Dad was watching the whole time they did that, giving pointers on breaking choke holds, which was not exactly conducive to fooling around. Point is, they've gone longer, lots longer, than that before. But not since Dean finally gave in to Sam's demands to be fucked—which, _jesus_, what the _hell_ had he been waiting for?—and now that Dean knows everything he's missing, the waiting is harder. No pun intended. Dean adjusts himself in his jeans and heads back down the ladder.

Dad sets Sam to carving stakes and Dean to making bullets at the table while he spreads out a pile of newspaper clippings and photocopies on the mattress, moving them from stack to stack, leafing through his notebook and his journal. Even though Dad's only ten feet away, Sam starts making lewd gestures with the wood he's working—which, _fuck_, Dean does not need to be thinking about Sam working his wood right now, and since when did the thought of a knife anywhere _near_ the tip of Dean's cock make him hard?

Dean's just going to file that away under things he never actually thought about.

Fortunately, Dad is distracted by his research and doesn't notice Sam's fooling around or Dean's hard-on.

Dean's melted down all their silver, and made two dozen iron rounds as well, by the time Dad calls a halt to the evening's activities and announces it's time for dinner. The bar they end up in has a TV in the corner, and Dad lingers for well over an hour nursing his third beer and trailing French fries through a puddle of ketchup without eating them, eyes on the screen over Dean's right shoulder.

Sam drives Dean out of his mind, stroking Dean's wrist, his leg under the table, just gentle back and forth of his fingers and thumb. Dean is dying to get out of here, or at least get up and play some pool, move around, shake off this haze of _wantneedwant_ he's drowning under, but the pool table's in the back with a big _No one under 21 allowed_ sign over the door between. With his fake ID Dean can pass for twenty-one in dim light on his own, but Sam barely passes for sixteen behind the wheel of a car—for all he's going to be as tall as Dean soon if he doesn't stop shooting up like he has been—and Dean isn't desperate enough to play that he's going to leave Sam here alone.

Instead, Dean starts yawning, catches the eye of the waitress to come clear their plates, yawns some more, until Dad finally notices and remembers aloud that they left Bixbee at five o'clock this morning so maybe they'd better get back, go to bed. Sam squeezes Dean's knee, hard, but when Dean glances to make sure the excitement isn't plain on Sam's face for Dad to see, Sam looks just as bored and sullen as he usually does when Dad's telling them where they'll go or what they'll do. Only then does Dean realize that he's the one grinning like an idiot.

"You okay there, Dean?" Dad asks.

Pointedly ignoring Sam, who's wiggling his ass in the guise of adjusting his shirt as he stands to go, Dean schools his face into a more neutral expression. "Fine," he says.

Dad hands Dean the car keys and gets out his phone while Sam situates himself in the back seat so he can see Dean in the rearview mirror. Dean does his best to keep his eyes off his brother and on the road while Dad talks to Jim Murphy about some kind of bullet-blessing ritual. When they get back to the cabin, they all stand on the front porch brushing their teeth with a bottle of holy water Sam dug out from under the seat, and then _finally_ Sam and Dean climb the ladder and shut the trap door behind them.

Before Dean can even reach for the sleeping bags to spread them out, Sam tackles him, and Dean barely keeps them upright long enough to stagger closer to the bed. Despite his efforts, they still make a loud crash when they fall.

"Boys?" Dad calls. "You alright up there?"

"Yes," Dean answers, trying not to laugh at Sam tickling him while he tries to get into Dean's pants. "Just should have lit the lamp. It's okay now, though."

Dad doesn't say anything else, so Dean relaxes back on the mattress and lets Sam finish pulling off his jeans. "You've got to be careful," he whispers. "Last thing we want is Dad poking his head up here."

"Umm hmm," Sam answers, but he's sucking a hickey onto Dean's hip, so Dean's not sure Sam even heard the warning.

The need for a lamp was a total lie. The moon is nearly full, and positioned right over the skylight so that Sam's head looks touched with silver where it's bowed over Dean's stomach. The fall of his hair throws Sam's face into shadow and something about it sends a shiver thrilling down Dean's spine.

"C'mere," he says, tugging at Sam's armpits. He needs to see Sam's face, look him in the eye, kiss him.

Sam comes easily, tugging his own shirt over his head as he does and then sliding his hands up under Dean's tee as he settles against him, fingers finding the grooves of Dean's ribs, thumbs seeking out Dean's nipples. "God," he's saying. "God, I missed you, wanna touch you, wanna—"

It's too much, so Dean holds him still and stops all the babbling with a kiss.

Sam whimpers—honest-to-god whimpers, like a dog left tied to a parking meter outside a shop—and tries to get closer, like maybe if he presses, grinds, ruts enough, he can get everything he wants at once. The friction of his fly against Dean's hipbone is painful, but Dean doesn't stop him. He twists his fingers tighter in Sam's hair, pulls him closer, kisses him deeper.

Finally Sam pushes away, heaving in air like he'd forgotten to breathe, and hisses, "Clothes off. Now. Fuck."

Dean is not inclined to argue.

~*~*~*~

 

Sam's been going crazy with wanting Dean ever since he saw his brother's grin framed by the loft's trap door. The teasing Sam'd been doing all afternoon didn't exactly help his own cause of trying to keep his dick from tenting his jeans, but he figured if he had to be sporting wood, Dean might as well join him. Besides, it's always easier to get Dean to fuck him as hard as he likes when Dean is blind horny.

Though Sam knows Dean loves him just as much when he's not fucking him, Sam feels it more when Dean _is_, and it feels so good he never wants it to stop. When he was little, he used to imagine he could crawl inside Dean's skin, that Dean could carry him around that way, safe and protected and _his_. Now he's glad Dean can't—Dad would probably order Dean to do it all the time; he totally thinks Sam can't take care of himself.

But when Dean _is_ inside him, Sam feels like he imagined it would back then. Plus, he comes harder then than he ever does if Dean just uses his hands or his mouth. Sam is practically shaking with the need for Dean to fuck him.

They've never risked doing this with Dad around, and Sam feels like he should be scared, but he's not. He's just impatient. Dean rolls to the end of the bed and pulls a towel and some lube out of his duffel while Sam gets the rest of his clothes off, and then Dean's on him again, kissing him, pushing Sam's arms over his head so he can stroke over Sam's ribs, down his stomach to cup a hand over Sam's dick and balls.

Sam whimpers—he doesn't mean to, it just slips out—and Dean lets go his hands to cover Sam's mouth. Which is, _god_, even hotter. It makes no sense at all to Sam that he likes it so much when Dean does stuff like that, because he gets furious when Dean tries to tell him what to do when they're training or doing research. But here, like this? Sam wants Dean to hold him down and spread him open and just take whatever he wants.

"Fuck me," he begs against Dean's hand. It's just a mush of sounds, but Dean knows what Sam said and reaches down just enough farther to tease his fingertip around Sam's hole.

"This what you want?" he whispers in Sam's ear. "Want me inside you?"

"Yes!" still muffled by Dean's hand, but even if Dean didn't know the answer, Sam's violent nod and the thrust of his hips would tell him.

"Can you be quiet if I let you go?" Barely more than puffs of air against Sam's neck, Dean showing as well as telling Sam what to do.

Sam nods, clamping his lips between his teeth, because he's not actually certain he can follow Dean's instructions.

Rolling off him, Dean motions for Sam to lift up so he can put a towel between him and the mattress. When Sam gives him a look, Dean mutters something about wet spots and stains on sleeping bags. Not that Sam's actually complaining; the mattress isn't all that comfortable on his ass, anyway. The towel has faded gold horseshoes on it—it's the one Sam stole from the Hi-D-HOtel in Kentucky, where Dad left them for two whole days and nights which Sam and Dean spent in bed. That was where Dean first used his mouth on Sam's dick. Sam didn't know Dean knew he'd taken it as a reminder. Unless maybe Dean kept one too, and they're hauling around two fugly horseshoe towels.

"Gonna open you up," Dean whispers, pulling Sam's legs open, slipping his fingers down behind Sam's balls.

Sam just nods, lips still clamped tight shut, because he wants to beg and he knows he won't keep it to a whisper. Sometimes Dean teases, but tonight he pushes a finger inside as soon as he gets Sam wet. "So hot," he says, watching Sam's face they way he always does to make sure he's not going too fast.

"More," Sam dares to whisper. "More." Sometimes he wishes Dean wasn't always so careful.

Dean pushes Sam's legs wider, moves between them, so Sam's left leg is wrapped around his waist and he's propped on one elbow with a hand free to thumb over Sam's cheek, his lips, the line of Sam's jaw. His other hand keeps moving between Sam's thighs, fucking in and out, one finger then two, then one again, friction and pressure combining to make Sam want to fuck back hard and fast. But he's held down by his brother's weight, has to submit to Dean's pace.

The next time Dean brushes over his lips, Sam sucks Dean's thumb into his mouth, conveying his desperation without any noise. Dean responds by pushing in with three fingers, angling up, finally fucking Sam like he means it. Sam wants to wait, he means to wait, but it's too good, too much, and he comes, before Dean touches his dick, before Dean can get his own dick inside.

"Sorry," Sam says, mumbling around Dean's thumb, but Dean just smiles at him, keeps his fingers inside, rubbing softly now, and moves to stroke Sam's still-half-hard cock until he moves beyond too-much to fully hard again.

"Gonna fuck you now," Dean says, trading his fingers for his dick.

Sam's glad he came already, because that means he can concentrate on the feel of Dean filling him up, moving inside him; he can watch Dean's face. Dean fucks him slow and deep until Sam wraps his legs around Dean's ribs and uses the leverage to snap his hips, forcing Dean into a faster rhythm, past concentration into panting, frantic desperation.

Dean comes before Sam can get a hand around his own dick, and collapses on top of him, a hot, sweaty weight. Sam bucks against Dean's belly, ignoring the drying come that makes everything too sticky to feel good. Sam just can't keep still.

Huffing soft laughter at Sam's eagerness, Dean rolls off, scoots down to wet Sam's dick with his mouth before moving to kiss him, stroking the now-slick skin with an uncoordinated grip. It's good, but not enough, and Sam breaks the kiss to say, "Fuck me, please, your fingers."

"Greedy," Dean says, but he complies, letting Sam jack himself, slicking his own fingers through the come dripping down Sam's ass to push them back inside.

Forgetting himself, Sam starts to croon encouragement, but Dean hushes him with another kiss before he can do more than squeak. Dean hardly has to move; Sam's so eager that he's doing all the work, grip tight on Dean's shoulder, fucking down onto Dean's fingers and up into the circle of his hand, biting and sucking at Dean's lips. He's so close, so close, but he doesn't want it to stop, wants Dean to keep fucking him forever. But Dean wraps an arm around Sam's back, twining his fingers in Sam's hair, pulling just hard enough to make Sam's stomach flip over and a second orgasm rip down his spine. Dean fucks him through it relentlessly, making Sam jerk enough he'd worry about breaking Dean's wrist if he were a little more with it.

He's trying to catch his breath, enjoying Dean stroking his hair and rubbing the inside of his thigh, when Dad's voice comes from downstairs, making his finally-slowing heart race again.

"Boys! Quit roughhousing and get some sleep!"

Sam and Dean both freeze, but there is no creaking sound from the ladder or the trap door, and Dad doesn't say anything else.

"Jesus," Dean whispers.

Sam just looks at him wide-eyed.

"Jesus," Dean repeats.

So much for afterglow. Sam loosens his grip on Dean's shoulder when he realizes he's probably hurting him. As soon as he does, Dean flops down onto the bed, arm over his eyes. "Roughhousing," he mutters.

After another half a minute to make extra sure Dad's not coming to investigate, they use the horseshoe towel to clean up and then they unroll the sleeping bags. Dean zips them together without Sam even having to ask, which is surprising given that his reason for making them sleep separate when he does is Dad finding out. But he pulls Sam into the double bag and wraps him up, tangling their legs together and tucking Sam's head under his chin.

Neither of them says anything, though Sam is wondering what Dean thinks Dad would do if he found out, wondering if Dean likes fucking Sam as much as Sam likes being fucked, wondering how long Dean thinks they'll stay here, with their own sleeping loft.

Dean is rubbing his thumb in soothing circles at the base of Sam's skull, making Sam think the answers to his questions probably don't matter. They're here, and together. Everything else will work out.


End file.
